


A Dangerous Truth

by Amymel86



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aegon and Sansa's marriage is political, Aegon is unable to have children, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, F/M, Jon is Rhaegar's acknowledged bastard, Jon is a Gold Cloak but has pledged himself to Sansa's protection, Rhaegar is a major dick, Rhaegar is paranoid and also war hungry, Sansa is married to Aegon, Sexual Content, for sunny!!, guess who he asks to help out with that?, jonsa holiday exchange, making an heir, targaryen madness? sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:40:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21794686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amymel86/pseuds/Amymel86
Summary: “You cannot ask this of her.”Sansa heard the words through the thick wooden door. They were murmured, but she knew they were spoken from the lips of her cousin, Ser Jon. He sounded irritated.“Or are you to just order her to lie back and lift her skirts? She will have no say?”She felt her cheeks blooming with heat. What on earth is he talking about?
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 48
Kudos: 548
Collections: Jonsa Holidays 2019





	A Dangerous Truth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunbeamsandmoonrays](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunbeamsandmoonrays/gifts).



> For Sunny! I really hope that your enjoy :)
> 
> *note to readers* Please don't pick apart any of the political plot here - it is definitely not my strong suit!!

“You cannot ask this of her.”

Sansa heard the words through the thick wooden door. They were murmured, but she knew they were spoken from the lips of her cousin, Ser Jon. He sounded irritated.

“Or are you to just _order_ her to lie back and lift her skirts? She will have no say?”

She felt her cheeks blooming with heat. What on earth is he talking about? Someone answered him - although, without pressing her ear to the door, she was unable to decipher the owner of the quieter, second voice.

“ _Aegon!”_ Jon boomed, making Sansa jump a little, her slippers shuffling back on the cool marble floor of the Red Keep. The sound seemed loud to her ears there, lurking in the silent hall. Someone will be along soon and see her. Glancing around, Sansa’s pulse was thick in her ears when she’s sure that she spied movement in a doorway along the hall. There are eyes and ears everywhere in the Red Keep.

But at least she knows who it is her cousin seems to be quarrelling with.

Her husband.

“Is it not enough that you continue to dishonour her?!” Ser Jon continued, enraged. “You would ask her to sin so that-“

Sansa had had enough. She twisted the wrought iron handle and pushed open the door. Jon spun around at her entry, his words dying on his tongue, his look of fury dimming into his usual reserved respect, though the hue of his cheeks remained a rosy pink. “My lady,” he bowed his head, his scaled armour glittering with the movement.

In the corner, her husband stood from his chair. “Lady Sansa,” he said in greeting. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company? You are usually engaged with your sewing circle at this hour, are you not?”

Sansa glanced between them. Ser Jon’s jaw was tensed. She could spy the muscle there, ticking, the hand that he had burnt in an unfortunate accident as a child clenched and unclenched. Her husband was simply smiling. “Forgive me,” she curtseyed. Aegon waved away her deference as per usual, though Sansa still felt the need to armour herself in her courtesies here at King Rhaegar’s court. “I heard raised voices,” she finished, lowering her eyes to the beautifully woven rug atop the polished marble floor.

“Ah,” said Aegon, “in that case, allow _me_ to apologise. My brother and I were just... discussing something.”

Lifting her gaze again, Sansa saw the two brothers staring one another down. There was a world of communication in the glares they were forcing on each other and she felt quite caught between them both.

Ser Jon’s nostrils flared as he huffed. “Excuse me, my lady,” he said, turning on his boots before bowing once more to her, “I should be getting along to the training yard.” With that, he strode from the room, leaving without offering his brother and prince another glance.

Turning to her husband, Sansa regarded the tight smile upon his lips. She wasn’t stupid. Whatever it was they were discussing, obviously involved her in some way. Either that, or it was a matter in which she is not trusted with.

Aegon offered her a congenial remark about her dress and wished her a pleasant afternoon before he too, was ushering himself from the room, leaving her all alone.

Sansa has become accustomed to feeling alone here in the capital. She hopes that one day, she’ll see her marriage with Aegon as a union true, but the reality of it is that she was ushered into house Targaryen in a bid to mend the wounds that war had inflicted. Rhaegar did not trust the north for their part of the rebellion, and the north still stung horribly from their loss of Lyanna Stark. Sansa feels the weight of all that resentment from both sides on her shoulders here at Kings Landing.

Although he is but another stranger in a sea of unfamiliar faces here, her cousin Jon, the king’s acknowledged bastard son, is somewhat a comfort to her with his Stark grey eyes and long, northern face. He reminds Sansa of her father in a way and she found her heart warmed when he pledged himself to her, as part of the king’s guard. She’s never experienced a knight vowing to place her protection above others, but she is a princess now, after all.

***

It turned out to only be the passing of one single day until Sansa was to find out the topic of Jon and her husband’s quarrel.

She is not often summonsed to Aegon’s solar, and she must admit, the mere un-commonality of it set her pulse to an unsteady beat. “The prince wishes to speak with you, my lady,” Jon had said when he’d been sent to fetch her from her sewing circle. Such formality her cousin has. He escorts her, walking by her side with his hand curled around the pommel of his sword as though suspecting a foe to jump out from behind the drapes. A child servant stops in his tracks when he sees them, hurrying to press his back to the wall and allow them more than enough space to breeze by. Sansa can feel that child’s eyes on her with every step she takes to her husband’s solar.

“My lady,” Jon ventures, pausing to inhale and staring at the floor as they walked. “Whatever Egg tells you... please know that you have a choice.”

Sansa tries for a giggle that doesn’t quite want to come out. “Goodness, Ser Jon. You’re making this all sound rather serious.” The faint, faltering smile he gave her did nothing to quell the swelling tide of nerves crashing around in her gut. Things are still tense between the capital and the north, Sansa knows. Has something happened? Are her family in danger? Will she be in danger?

Her husband greeted her with that smile again – the one that Sansa finds a little condescending. Aegon does not treat her as a child, per se, and yet he clearly underestimates her. Sansa knows she shouldn’t let it rankle her – being underestimated can have its uses.

“Are you well?” he asked as her knight pulled out the chair for her. Sansa seated herself, still well aware that her cousin has decided to keep sentry over her, standing close behind and a little off to the side. His flexing hand was in her peripheral vision. It was quite distracting.

“Very well, yes. Thank you.”

“Care for some lemon tea?” her prince asked, seemingly already pouring her a cup before hearing her answer. In the end, she gave none at all and still he continued to pour, smiling at her again as he pushed the beverage across the table. He didn’t offer her any sugar lumps. Sansa always took sugar in her tea.

Watching the steam float from her cup, Sansa swallowed. She suspected that whatever it was her husband was about to tell her, she will find little sweetness in it. Aegon licked his lips and opened his mouth to speak, only to be interrupted by Ser Jon, leaning across the table to pick up the little dish of sugar. He placed it beside Sansa’s tea under the watchful eye of their prince.

“Lady Sansa likes her tea sweetened,” he answered simply.

Aegon smirked. “Yes. It seems you know my bride better than I, brother.”

Sansa glanced at her self-appointed guard. He was pointedly ignoring the prince and that tick in his jaw was back.

“Sansa,” her husband began, bringing her attention back to his violet eyes. “I have asked to speak to you today because there is an issue of great importance that must be discussed.”

Sansa began to fiddle with the material of her skirts. “Yes, my prince.”

“As you know, the relationship with my father and the north is a rocky one,” he paused to glance at his brother before ploughing on, “and our marriage alliance was part of attempting to smooth over the cracks, so to speak.”

A crease appeared between Sansa’s brows. “Has it not?” If it hasn’t, then what was the point of this union? Aegon – although pleasant – has no particular attachment over her that could rival his own fondness of his personal manservant or the soldiers he prefers to spar with. Though, the occasional marital sparring he does with her takes place in her bed, Sansa is sure both work him into a sweat of enjoyment. It is only a shame she cannot claim similarly.

“It has helped, yes... but for the alliance to work, and for the good of the realm, and our house, our union must seem... _fruitful.”_

A babe? Sansa sat a little straighter in her high-backed chair. Of course she wants a babe. They have been wed almost ten moons with no issue as yet. “I am not barren!” The words slip like a prime-caught eel thrashing its way out from a slippery wet grasp. The inhale Sansa took after her outburst was a shadow of a gasp. She could feel her cheeks redden and she refused to look at Jon. Why is he still here anyway?

Her husband gave her a tight smile. “I am not doubting you, Sansa. But a Targaryen babe _is_ needed from you.”

Sansa was at a loss. If Aegon does not want to cast her aside through suspicions of her being unable to carry his child, then why is a conversation needed at all? Can he simply not just visit her bed more regularly? She stared at her husband, a little perplexed that he is to make her say the words in front of her cousin. “Perhaps, my prince...” Sansa paused, shifting in her seat, “if you are to visit-... visit me more often, then the issue of a babe will be solved.”

Sighing, Aegon took a sip of his tea and set the cup back down. When he spoke, his eyes remained on the grain of the solid oak table-top. “Lady Sansa, you are aware, of course, that ours is not a love match. That you knew nothing of me, save for me being the prince, and I knew nothing of you, save for tales of your beauty.”

Sansa blinked at her husband, not quite sure how to respond.

Aegon smiled thinly. “The rumours of your fair face and beautiful flame-licked hair were true, of course. Though, we would’ve been forced to marry even you had possessed the looks of a jackass,” he chuckled.

Ser Jon bristled, his armour creaking as he tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword.

“Oh, stand down,” Aegon said, rolling his eyes. “It was merely a jape, brother. I’m not saying she actually looks like a jackass!”

“You are making Lady Sansa uncomfortable.” The accusation came from her cousin’s lips in a low husk. Aegon snorted. “Just get to the point.”

Sansa was glad of Jon’s instruction. He seems to be the only one, bar the king, who dared talk to her husband that way.

Aegon pushed his hand through his silver-gold hair and sighed once more. He took a breath and looked plainly at Sansa. “When we wed, I was in love with another.” Sansa inhaled. Jon shifted on his feet beside her. “I had been for a long time, and I still am. I am sorry, Sansa, if this had not been the case, then perhaps the fondness I have for you could have grown into something more. But I cannot give my heart when it already belongs to another.”

Sansa’s gaze fell to the table surface between them. The ridges of the grain were well polished, almost smooth. She furrowed her brow and opened her mouth to speak, only for her words to fail while she was still thinking over this piece of information. There was no ‘love’ between her and her husband – nothing akin to what her parents have, at least. But she had hoped that something might have blossomed. She finds herself disappointed, but surprisingly not crushingly so. “Why did you not wed _her_?” she asks.

“She is a commoner,” Aegon said simply. “She used to be a whore. Now she resides in a manse and I visit her as often as I can.”

That stung her pride a bit, but Sansa shakes it away. She finds herself dropping the rigidity of her spine, almost in exasperation. “Forgive me, my prince, but I should not like to be privy to the details of your mistress, and quite frankly I am at a loss as to why you feel the need to tell me in the first place.” Her heart hammered in her chest. She’s never spoken so bluntly to anyone here at court. Sansa heard Ser Jon’s boots scuff on the floor as he shifted again in the silence between her and her husband.

Aegon’s smile was tight. “You will not fall pregnant with my child.”

Sansa had the urge to throw her scolding hot lemon tea over his head. “But... it is your duty to-... you cannot just refuse-“

“I did not refuse,” he interrupted, “as you well know, I visited our marriage bed in the hopes that you would fall with child, even when my heart longed for another.”

Sansa’s fingers curled around the fabric of her skirts.

“ _Egg,”_ her cousin hissed. The prince simply waved his warning away.

“I cannot father children, Sansa,” he finally explained.

Sansa froze, unable to respond.

“No woman I have ever had relations with has ever claimed that I’d sired a bastard. The woman whom I love dearly wants children from me – something I have failed to give her, even after years of trying. Seven Hells! I even had the Maester tell me when to visit you to give my seed taking root the best possible chance, I-“

Sansa recoiled. She had not considered her handmaids, the Maester and the prince bring so knowledgeable of her moonblood cycle. She hadn’t realised that everything had been so calculated. And yet it still didn’t work, did it?

“Is there nothing to be done?” the thought of never holding a babe of her own in her arms set off a keen ache in Sansa’s chest.

“Well,” Aegon’s eyes slid towards her cousin, “my brother has volunteered to step in where I will continue to fail.”

“Seven Hells, Egg!” Ser Jon hissed, biting out the curse before twisting on his heels to look to Sansa. “My lady,” he said, making sure she was meeting his eye, “it is like I said before. You have a choice. You do not need to do this if you do not wish to.”

“She most certainly does not have a choice,” Aegon responded, making Jon’s head snap towards his brother. “She is married to the crown prince. What choices she has are confined to the style she wears her hair and how many _bloody sugar lumps she takes in her tea!”_

Jon’s hand returned to the pommel of his sword. “Aegon, I swear, if you force her-“

“You’ll do _what,_ brother? Hm?”

Sansa’s head was spinning. “ _Stop!_ Stop it, both of you!” Part of her was surprised by the force of her own voice, but a larger part was still reeling at what had been suggested. “Are you saying that I should... _lay_ with Ser Jon?”

“Yes,” Aegon turned his eye to his brother, looking him up and down. “And he will do so _very_ gladly.”

Jon looked as though a rebuff was on the tip of his tongue, but Sansa was faster. “But it is a sin!”

Watching her husband stand and walk over to the window, Sansa’s mind was still working desperately to comprehend exactly what it was her husband was asking of her.

“You will have my blessing,” Aegon said, still facing the gauzy drapes that undulated softly in the salty breeze of Kings Landing.

Sansa furrowed her brow at her teacup. She knew that the Targaryens were in desperate need of a mend to the rift between the capital and her homelands, and her father had whispered in her ear about the deceit she might encounter here at court.

And yet she’d never, until now considered that she might be a central part to that desperation and deceit.

“You can refuse,” a voice said close to her. It took Sansa a moment or two to understand that the voice had belonged to her cousin. She had been so wrapped up in the tumbling thoughts in her own head. At the corner of her eye, she saw Aegon turn to argue some more with his brother on the matter. Jon met him with a hard stare.

Sansa found herself speaking to the knight before either man could begin snarling at one another. “And you are willing to...?”

As uncomfortable as Sansa felt at the prospect of what they were planning, her cousin seemed to look even more so, with his cheeks aflame above his bearded jaw. “I...” he paused to allow his tongue to swipe across his lips. Sansa felt oddly drawn to the movement. “If a babe is what you want, my lady... I am willing to... _help_.”

Sansa watched the way Ser Jon’s throat had bobbed after his proclamation, not realising they were staring at one another until the third person in the room spoke up.

“A babe is was the realm _needs_ , never mind what Lady Sansa _wants_.”

Seeing the glint of rage flash in her cousin’s eyes again, Sansa stood abruptly before the two brothers could start arguing again. Her chair legs scratched against the stone flagged floor horribly, but it distracted them both long enough to stall their quarrel. She looked neither of them in the eye, instead opting to focus on the tapestry hung on the wall opposite. “It just so happens that what the realm needs and what I want do coincide,” she told them, her gaze dropping to the table and her voice then dropping with it. “I do want a babe,” Sansa near enough whispered.

***

The turnip wagon bumped and rocked as little Sanira hugged her knees. She repeated and repeated the words in her head – the message she’d been tasked to deliver to Lord Stark, and Lord Stark alone.

_The prince continues to dishonour her. He visits with his mistress weekly. The union seems strained._

_The prince continues to dishonour her. He visits with his mistress weekly. The union seems strained._

_The prince continues to dishonour her. He visits with his mistress weekly. The union seems strained._

If she completes this task well, her mother will be paid enough to feed them for a moon! It was going to be a long ride to the north.

***

“My lady,” her cousin bows when she bids him to enter her chambers. Her heart feels as flighty as a caged golden finch. Ordinarily such a response to her knight’s presence would be unthinkable, yet tonight Sansa feels as though she is unable to seize control of her nerves.

Her husband had sparked the orchestration of this meeting, having hinted heavily at the information passed onto him from the Maester. Apparently, the old man in his dusty room possesses some form of chart that can be read to determine the best time for seed to take root in Sansa’s belly. Sansa’s not sure that she likes this intimate knowledge to be written in ink somewhere for prying eyes to stumble across. She makes a vow to request the charts to be burned once Jon gets her with child.

_Once Jon gets her with child._

She’d conjured the thought so readily and without preamble that it quite took her breath away. Nerves thrum in her veins and swirl in her tummy, of course; she will be coupling with a man other than her husband – no matter the blessing Aegon has given them, it remains a sin that accompanies the unfamiliar flesh into her bed.

_And if anyone were to find them out..._

Sansa shudders. She thinks Rhaegar is not quite losing his mind just yet... he says some troubling things though, and his temper of late has a habit of flaring like the flames of a licking fire. Who knows what punishment he should order for her when in one of his fits? He would likely smell the scent of conspiracy if he found out.

No. No-one must know. That is very clear.

Which only serves to cause her nervousness to spike even higher.

The way her knight is looking at her isn’t particularly helping either.

“Would you care for a drink, Jon?” Sansa asks, already moving to the side table where a choice of both Arbor Gold and Dornish Red sit in cut glass decanters.

One side of Jon’s mouth quirks upwards in brief acknowledgment. His voice is soft and low when he answers. “No, my lady. Thank you.”

Sansa stands there, half the way in her journey towards the sweet nectar of wine, her fingers fiddling with themselves as she wills her heart to slow for even a fraction of its current pace. She decides to proceed and pour herself a drink. Her cousin watches her, stood still in his armour.

“You’re nervous,” he states, not unkindly, yet Sansa wishes he hadn’t laid her out bare quite like that... not yet, anyway.

“Aren’t _you?”_

Jon averts his gaze, eyes flitting about the room and landing on nothing in particular. “I do not wish to make you uncomfortable.”

Swallowing the last drop of honey-coloured wine, Sansa foregoes propriety (for what place does it have here, what with what they are about to commit, anyway?) and smacks her lips at the rich taste and the slow warmth that chases the liquid. “It is not you that makes me uncomfortable, Jon,” she tells him. “Only the whole situation we find ourselves in. What a great lie we must tell every single soul of the realm.” Sansa pours a second glass as Jon watches her.

“And the lies would rest heavy on your conscience?” He’s looking at her again. Sansa would swear that her cousin is the only person in the city who looks at her with such an earnest expression.

Taking a sip, she curls her wrist and cradles her glass to her chest as she considers his question. “Not as much as it ought to, I suspect,” she admits, teeth sinking into the plump of her lip as she confesses. “There is not much beyond fondness between myself and my husband so there’s no betrayal felt there... the Gods may see it differently.” _If the Gods are watching over us at all?_ “And what of you?”

“What _of_ me?”

“Well,” Sansa paused to consider her words, “won’t it be difficult... to see your brother claim the babe... _your_ babe? ...That no one, besides the three of us will know the truth of it all?”

Sansa watched with a hand still tightly grasping her cup as her cousin’s jaw tensed and he glanced briefly to his boots. “Life is not without difficulties, that is true.”

It takes a moment for Jon’s eyes to find hers again and when they do, she can see worry chipped into the stone Stark-grey she finds there. She thinks to ask him to sit with her for a while before they commit their sin together for their duty to peace, but her knight breaks the thick silence before she even parts her lips. “My lady, if you would rather we don’t engage in this tonight, we can-“

“No, no, it’s fine.” _Best to get it over with,_ Sansa tells herself while she wills her pulse to slow its erratic pace. “Will you need help with your amour?” She says, gesturing to the golden scales he still dons.

The shake of his head is minute and quite cut off when he looks to her and asks, “unless... you want me to be rid of it? I thought you might want me to stay covered...Whatever you wish.”

“You will be more comfortable,” Sansa tells him and herself both, and before she has chance to think on it for much longer, she finds herself moving forward, hands reaching out to aid her cousin in shedding at least his outer skin of steel and leather. She has to do _something_. If she’s not busying herself, then her mind will start wandering down dimly-lit paths. Her outstretched fingers curl inward as she realises she is out of her depth. “Except, I do not know how to help you out of it.”

After a few gently murmured instructions from her cousin, Sansa manages to free him of most of his armoured confines with the odd clink and jaw-clenching metallic scrape before she’s standing there, blinking at him. He is rather handsome, she’d always thought so – right from the very day her father had brought her down to this wretched city to be wed to the dragon’s heir. “There. You’ll be more comfortable now.” Her pulse is throbbing as thickly as it did the day she wed House Targaryen.

Sansa takes a breath, her heart jumping as though trying to burst from her chest, feeling out of place in her own chambers. She always is a little anxious when it comes to being bedded, though she has gotten used to Aegon now. But this feels entirely different and Sansa’s unsure what to make of it. “Shall we...?” Her head tilts towards her huge bed. She’s prepared herself with sweet almond oil, if the Gods are good, this shouldn’t take too long and they can go back to how things are meant to be – with her feeling a little less like a brood mare and her poor knight not being reduced to a stud.

Sansa stomps down those nerves clawing up the inside of her throat. She can handle this.

She thinks.

It isn’t until she’d already climbed atop the bed and positioned herself in the centre that Sansa realises Jon had not moved. Normally, Aegon would’ve at least been ridding himself of his breeches by now, but all her knight seems to be doing is standing there, watching her. If he hadn’t seen the hot blush blooming across her face before, she’s positive that he has now.

Jon swallows and shakes his head. “I...” his brows pinch as he glances down at his boots before finding her gaze again. “You’re happy to do this?”

“We don’t have much choice.”

Her cousin’s mouth is pressed into a thin line and Sansa waits, laid out on her embroidered sheets with her pulse thick in her ears. He must agree with her finally, because his feet begin to move forward, his throat bobbing as his knee sinks into her mattress and he begins to crawl towards her.

Reaching down, Sansa’s hands tremble as her fingers grasp at her skirts, bunching up the fabric with a rustle, lifting the barrier to reveal her stocking-clad legs and bare womanhood. This is how she prepares for her husband (granted, she’s normally in her night shift) and after ten moons worth of marriage she has become accustomed to the act, but this seems entirely different -entirely new.

With eyes that widen before swiftly averting themselves from between her legs, Jon’s cheeks redden further. “Are you... do you...” her cousin stutters, gaze resolutely fixed high on the carved wooden headboard above her. “That is...my lady... do you need me to...”

“No, I’ve prepared.”

“Good...good...” Jon mutters to himself, still unable to look at her. He licks at his lips and starts to unlace himself at his breeches. “That’s good.”

Jon leans down sooner than she had expected. Usually, Aegon needs a moment or two to ready himself with his hand before he’s able to perform his marital duties. Jon seems to need no such practice she realises when the unmistakable bump and nudge of his already stiff manhood is felt between her thighs. The realisation is... _interesting._ Perhaps all men are different in this regard?

With one hand dipping into her mattress at her waist and the other guiding himself inside her, Jon finally meets her eye for approval to continue in their sin. She nods, giving it to him.

Her knight’s movements are slow and measured, though they manage to draw a gasp from her lungs nonetheless. He stills, his member half inside her and a look of concern on his sweet face. Her balcony doors are half open what with the night feeling rather balmy. A woman laughs from the gardens below, the noise making Sansa gulp as it fills the night. “It’s alright,” she tells him, “carry on.”

His nod is minute and he pushes further, stretching her around himself. It makes Sansa bite her lip. She’s never before considered that men’s bodies came in all manners of shapes and sizes much beyond tall or short, broad or lean, skinny or rotund. But her knight is made differently to her husband, that is for sure. She’d never thought Aegon’s manhood small before, but what does she know on the subject? Very little. But Jon... Jon is making her feel... uncommonly full. _Seven above!_ It made her feel like a maiden being deflowered all over again.

She took a breath. Jon was watching her. He hadn’t begun to move yet. All she was able to do in response was wrap her legs around his hips and nod her head.

He was slow, his rocking into her. And his gaze stayed concentrated upon the carvings of her headboard as he would gently thrust back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Sansa felt free to watch him above her, his strong arms propping his frame up at either side of her. He would give her a strong babe, for sure. The thought pleased her enough that she was almost able to forget how much danger surrounded them.

They never quite got up to the speed and fervency as Aegon does, thrusting into her like he were in a race and desperately trying to obtain a win. But Jon’s rocking had picked up its pace and his face was flush as his teeth sunk into his lip. Every now and again his eyes would fall down to her only to bound away rather swiftly when he found her looking up at him. Sweat was beginning to bead his brow and it seemed as though he was holding onto his breath.

“ _My lady,”_ he rasped in a hoarse kind of whisper, still unable to look her in the eye as each of his thrusts began to jostle her up the bed. “I’m... _I’m close.”_

At his warning, Sansa found herself tightening her legs’ grip, slipping them higher around her knight’s waist so that he might sink deeper into their joining. He groaned a most delicious sound that made the downy hairs on her arms stand to attention. And then it was over. His movements stuttered into little spasms making him buck into her a time or two as he tried to catch a hold of his breath.

Jon’s eyes were closed as he stilled, trembling above her before forcing himself to look upon Sansa’s face. Blinking up at him, she felt the way her knight slowly and carefully removed himself from her person, allowing a trickle of his seed to follow, wetting the inside of her thigh. Sansa snapped her legs together. Her heart was beating loudly in her ears. “May the Gods be kind,” she told him as he stood from her bed, lacing up his breeches. “Perhaps we have just made a babe.”

They hadn’t.

Ser Jon visited her bed twice more during the same cycle of her moon blood but his seed had not taken root.

They shall try again.

Mayhaps the Gods will be in a better mood next time.

***

“I’m told there is disquiet in the north,” King Rhaegar says through his chewing, the words said as though it were a perfectly fine thing to bring up conversationally. Sansa’s fork stills, hovering over her honeyed duck and spiced potatoes. Someone’s knife scrapes painfully across a plate. “Do you know anything of it?” He turns his violet eyes towards her, dabbing his mouth with a linen. Sansa feels aflame with the sudden attention.

“N-no, your grace,” she says. All eyes are on her now, branding her skin with hot pokers of suspicion. Ser Jon’s armour scrapes and clinks as he shifts his feet, stood behind her. Jon is never invited to dine at the table when the king is hosting the meal. Instead, he stands sentry, back to the wall, always placing himself close to her seat as though he suspects someone to threaten her with a butter knife.

The king’s gaze briefly lifts over Sansa’s head to meet with his bastard son’s. She wonders what he sees when he looks to Jon. Something seems to amuse him and Sansa’s sure that whatever it is Rhaegar sees, it does not mirror her own view of her knight. Her husband stirs beside her. “I’m sure it is nothing, father.”

The king’s eyes are quick and cutting. “You defend your bride?”

“I-... There is nothing to defend. Sansa has done nothing but be true and loyal to the crown.”

Her heart thumped painfully behind her ribs.

The non-committal grunt King Rhaegar made did nothing to stay her nerves. Turning his attention back to his food, Sansa thought that had been that, but she had been wrong. “The sooner we have a Targaryen babe from her, the better,” he stated, shoving a bite of glazed parsnip into his mouth. “The North continues to grumble quietly about your marriage. Perhaps the fruit of your union will shut them up.”

“Yes, father.” The words seem to echo off the marble floors and the crystal cut wine glasses. Sansa’s eyes scarcely leave her plate as they continue to dine.

“ _Although_...” the room falls quiet for the second time and Sansa feels like she can taste the silence as attention is on the king. “... I do often wonder exactly _what_ the northerners would _do_?” His unnerving violet eyes are on her again. Her palms are awfully clammy. “If they truly were still upset-“ he flits his gaze up behind her and Sansa knows he’s looking to Jon, “-about their liege Lord’s daughter being tied so intimately with the Targaryen crown... what would they do?... what _could_ they do?” He pauses to sip his Dornish red and leans forward with an amused smile. “Tell me, good-daughter, what is your father capable of when poked hard enough?” Sansa did not like the glint in his eye.

“I-I... my father is loyal to the crown! He would never-... the north is loyal to you, your grace.”

The king’s amusement slid from his face to be replaced with an eye roll. “Yes-yes,” he huffed, looking away, bored.

After being excused with a wave of his grace’s hand, her knight and her husband share a look while they both escort her from the room.

***

“It’s fine, honestly, Jon,” she said, scooting back to the centre of her bed.

“Are you sure, my lady? It’s just my brother tells me that father is getting more and more restless and-... some of the comments he’s been making lately are... troublesome... but, it has been a long night and if you’d rather retire-”

Sansa smiled, the action feeling a little numb from the Arbor Gold she’d had at the feast this evening. The fuzziness in her head reminded her of being the girl she once was; with no more pressing concern the choice of dress she might wear or how to style her hair or which Lord’s sons would ask her to dance. It helped her to forget. She would very much like to forget this awful place – a place where you should watch where you carefully place your feet, lest a hidden snake strike at your ankles. Her eyelids hung heavily. She’s so tired. But they need to make a babe – that’s the whole reason Jon had followed her into her rooms after she’d retired from the night of drinking and merriment and placating the king.

“It’s fine,” she repeats. And truthfully, it was. Sansa has come to know her knight and his gentle rutting into her, gradually building to a stuttered end. She does not mind it. It is not unpleasant. In fact, on occasion she feels... _something_. It’s hot and low and almost liquid. It makes her want to cant her hips against his and dig her fingernails into the muscles of his back.

But she can’t do that.

They’re making a babe, not making love.

This time starts like all the others. After two full moons of trying to conceive, Sansa has learnt her knight’s gentle ways. Though, tonight she feels different. Her body feels lighter and that awfully pleasant feeling she experiences on occasion returns when Jon’s body moves against her _just so._

Sansa turns her head away and bites down hard on her lip. She should not have taken as much wine as she did. She can feel her cheeks aglow as she lays there, eyelids closed, legs curled around the hips of her knight as his thrusts gently jostle her up and down the bed. She can picture it; how it would be if the circumstances were different – with he her loving husband and she his dutiful wife and sated lover. How wonderful it would be to have him hold her – wrap her up in those strong arms, hold her tight and love her, love her, _love her_. Until they were both dotted with sweat and she could breathily whisper of her answering love for him. Are there any words more beautiful to give someone? Are there any more healing than to hear them in return?

Sansa supposes that she’ll never know. All she has is a husband who loves another and her Ser Jon who is duty-bound to her. She strongly suspects he has a great fondness for her, but that may only be due to his Stark heritage.

In any case, it does no good to dwell on things out of one’s grasp. All she has right now is the man trying to get her with child and that delicious feeling slowly heating between her legs as he ruts, ruts, ruts against something down there that is making her feel _alive_.

With eyes that dare not open, Sansa’s brow furrows and her tongue rolls out to wet her lips. Gods, why did she have so much wine? If she had just stuck to one or two cups she would be able to lay still, unbothered by her knight doing his duty. She bitesthe inside of her mouth because she can’t-

She can’t just _lay there_. She needs-... _something_.

“ _More,”_ Sansa hears herself whisper hoarsely, her head turned, pressing deeper into her sheets. Jon stills. All she can hear is the thick pulse throbbing throughout her body and his panted breath above her. He’s looking down at her. She’s sure of it. She can practically _feel_ him making a study of her – of the way the skin of her throat must be blush-stained and how her legs wrap around him tightly as though she intends to never let him leave.

“My lady?” her knight asks, breathing still laboured from his efforts.

Sansa says nothing. She says nothing and does nothing; just continues to lay there, beneath him with her legs splayed, her head turned away and his manhood hard and proud inside her.

She doesn’t know quite what becomes of her, but Sansa finds herself squeezing him – not with her hands or her legs wrapped around his hips – but with her womanhood. Just a short jolt of a squeeze that was entirely involuntary on her end. It seemed to be something her body had decided to do for itself and caused Jon to buck a little into her and draw a sharp breath.

And now he continues to look down at her. She can feel the weight of his gaze as sure as she feels the weight of his frame. They both lay there, as still as the night. Though, nights aren’t all that unmoving and quiet when one knows how to look closely, are they? There’s fireflies and secrets, shadowy creatures and flesh moving against flesh in a dance of wants and needs and pure, sinful pleasure.

Jon lowers himself upon her, his lips grazing the shell of her ear in a torturously gentle manner. His chest feels gloriously heavy against her own as his hips grind into her in slow circles. “Did you want more, my lady?” he whispers. Sansa finds it hard to suppress the shudder that wants to weaken her spine. She screws her eyes up even tighter and lets out a pitiful kind of whimper as she nods her answer for him.

Pressing his nose to her temple, Jon’s hot breath dampens her skin. The whole world narrows down to how he slips his arms under her own, hooking over her shoulders to stop her from being shunted up the bed as Jon’s thrusts begin to build in force. Her lips part and she’s sure her mouth is hanging open in a graceless fashion, and yet she finds she cannot help it. The way her knight is moving against her now is... is... _Oh Gods!_

“Is that what you want?” he rasps into her temple.

“ _Y-yes_.”

“More?”

“Yes. _More._ ”

Jon groans right into the apple of her cheek and the noise that she can feel rumble from his chest is so untamed, so base, that Sansa finds herself answering him with a soft cry, her back arching as though she’s trying to rise from the bed and press herself into the cage of his bones.

“ _Gods, Sansa,_ ” Jon growls, his thrusts taking on a pounding pace, his lips bumping against her ear. Is that the first time he’s called her by her given name without a title before it? “ _My lady_ ,” he pants next and Sansa’s not sure which she prefers. All she can hear is his heavy panting in her ear and all she can feel is the way her body is responding to him repeatedly rubbing, rubbing, rubbing against her in _just_ the right way.

“ _Jon_ ,” she hears herself whisper, his name sounding like a plea. Her hands lift of their own accord, leaving their desperate grasping of the sheets beneath their writhing bodies to twine around the back of her knight’s neck. They smooth across his shoulders, feeling the bunch and play of his muscles as he moves.

There’s something building, building, building, becoming hot and sweet just like Jon’s breath panting on her skin. “ _Sansa_ ,” he groans, “my lady...” Sansa has never before thought to connect the sound of a man _grunting_ with any kind of arousal but _sweet Maiden above! -_ with each thrust her knight is pushing her closer and closer to the edge of a great, freeing, cascading fall. “My lady... _my_...” he repeats, each grunted word accompanied with a hard rut of his hips until he finally growls, “ _mine_.” Something in her _snaps_ , pouring molten hot liquid that pulses all around her veins and the dim of her eyelids flash to pure white.

She cries out. Or perhaps it was more of a yelp? Sansa’s not sure. She’d heard of women experiencing great pleasure in coupling but this was unlike anything she had ever imagined. She was caught quite unawares as she shudders and grips onto her knight’s shoulders so ferociously that later she will think that her nails must have left marks upon his flesh.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” Jon is murmuring through panted breath of his own. She can feel a heart thumping where his body still lays heavily atop hers and for a moment or two Sansa’s not sure who it is that owns that racing heart. Is it hers? Or is it his? Perhaps it’s both. Perhaps their hearts have moulded together and now work as one, beating both independently and in concert with one another.

Jon is slowly tracing the shell of her ear with the tip of his nose. She finds the gesture oddly relaxing, as though he would be likely to lull her off to sleep by doing so. Sansa can feel it happening, her limbs are heavy and her whole body pleasantly exhausted. Her knight holds her even tighter in the strength of his arms and although she’s tired, Sansa finds that she wants Jon to take her again tonight – a realisation that makes her brow furrow even in her sleepy state.

What... what just happened?

***

They coupled only once since the night of the feast and it hadn’t been quite the same. Nor was it as it had been previous to that, with her staring at her scalloped canopy as her knight did what he must.

She didn’t know where to put her hands anymore. She didn’t know where to look.

Everything felt all terribly new again. It was as though they were performing a dance for which she had not learnt the proper steps.

And she wanted that feeling again.

That... _thing_ Jon set off within her.

But she had been so much more relaxed that night. It just wasn’t the same now.

They are to couple again this evening and Sansa’s tummy is twisted in a tangle of knots. She stands before her hearth, a small fire crackling in the grate as her hands wring together while she waits. The knock at her door makes her heart stutter. She closes her eyes and takes a breath. A nervous smile spreads across her lips.

But the person behind the door is not her knight.

“Good evening, lady Sansa,” her husband says, inclining his head in greeting before walking past her into her chambers.

“What are you doing here?”

That was not ladylike of her. Not polite at all. Sansa found that she hardly cared. She had been waiting for Jon and to find Aegon here instead is... a disappointment.

Thankfully, her husband seemed to find her lack of manners amusing. He threw a smirk her way before moving to help himself to her pitcher of wine. “Father wants our company.”

“ _Now?”_ She did not relish spending time with the king.

He raises his brow at her while taking a sip. “Did you have other plans?”

“As a matter of fact-“

The room echoed with a knock at the door again and Sansa found herself hurrying to answer it. Her tummy swooped when she saw him there, standing the other side with his dark curls and smiling slate-grey eyes. She attempted to hold her grin, failing terribly before tucking some hair behind her ear and stepping aside to let her knight in. He stilled once he saw his brother present.

“What are _you_ doing here?”

“Funny,” Aegon snorted, placing his cup down to refill it. “That’s exactly how my dear wife greeted me too.”

“Egg-“

“Father wants our company this evening.”

“Now?”

Sansa watched her husband narrow his eyes at them both. “Oh, I see,” he smirked. “I see why you’re creeping into my lady wife’s bedchambers with that moonstruck look on your face. By all means,” he paused to chuckle, raising his cup of wine to salute them both as he retreats towards the door to Sansa’s solar, “don’t let me keep you. But be quick about it. Father wants an audience for his harp playing.”

With that, her husband disappeared behind the clicking of a latch. “Is he... just going to wait in there? In your solar?” Jon asks and Sansa finds that she has no answer for him. “We don’t have to,” he says next, eyes flitting towards her feather bed. “If you’d rather not.”

With her gaze fixed upon the door her husband had disappeared behind, Sansa weighs her options. “No, I think... I think we should... quickly,” she answers, hands still wringing together before smoothing them out down the waterfall fabric of her skirts.

It starts like any of the other times. Although instead of stepping behind her dressing screen to rid herself of her daywear, Sansa keeps her dress on and merely lays back, indicating to her knight that he may lift her skirts.

He enters her with a sharp inhale over his teeth, strong arms propping him up over her. He’s watching her and Sansa wonders what he sees? If anyone were to come across this little scene, she supposes they’d look as though they were passionate lovers, caught in their own desire without time to properly undress, with her skirts hitched up to her waist and his breeches bunched down to his thighs.

Jon starts slowly, as always, though this time, Sansa finds herself trapped in his gaze, unable to look away. The mess of emotions inside her are threatening to reach a boiling point. They need to make a babe for the good of the realm... her husband is just the other side of that door... the king is awaiting them... _her husband is just the other side of that door_... if they are caught it’ll be their heads on spikes.

_Her husband is just the other side of that door._

And yet, laying beneath Jon, staring up at him as he moves, Sansa is able to calm those frayed nerves of hers. Suddenly, she seems to know what to do with her hands. She places them on his bucking hips. “Slower,” Sansa whispers up at her knight, grinding against him to lead the pace. “ _Make him wait_.”

Jon groans, following her instruction, leaning down until his chest is pressed to hers and she could count the flecks of violet in his Stark-grey eyes. “ _Fuck_ , Sansa,” he shudders, eyes clenching shut as his forehead gently presses to hers. His hot breath is ragged already as though he’d run through the city.

“Do you like that?” Sansa whispers, causing Jon’s eyes to pop open again. “Do you like fucking me while my husband waits in the other room?”

Jon’s eyes flit between hers, noses bumping with their slow carnal dance. “I’m not _fucking_ you, my lady.... _Never_ only _fucking_ you.”

What is it then? She didn’t need to speak the words. Didn’t need to ask. Thinks she knows the answer and her heart begins to beat a rhythm completely anew because of it.

He’s still staring at her; her knight, her protector, her lover, _her love_. And for the first time, she hopes he gets her with child, not for their duty, for the realm or because Aegon had asked it of them; she wanted his babe because the child would be _his_. She couldn’t fathom carrying a child of any other man. She wanted to create his family. She wanted to _be_ his family. She wanted this over and over and to be far away from this wretched city and his dangerous father and that ugly throne. “They gave me to the wrong Targaryen,” she whispers, eyes falling to his parted lips.

Her hands smooth up his waist, she can feel his ribs and the roll of his frame against hers as he gently lowers his lips so that they might meet with hers for the very first time.

***

“I saw the Maester today,” Sansa blurted as soon as she’d bade Jon to enter her chambers. She stood, her heart dancing, her skin aglow.

A crease formed at his brow as he pushed shut her door. “Are you unwell, my lady?”

Grinning, Sansa made her way over to him, the rustle of her skirts and the clip of her slippers competing with the thump-thump of her full heart. She shook her head, reaching for his hand and laying it atop her flat stomach.

Jon inhaled sharply, eyes intent on the world that he holds. “You’re...?”

“With child, yes.” The expression of awe on his face was almost comical. She beamed at him, having never felt happier. “ _Your_ child, Jon... _yours_.”

The breath that left his lips was swift and sweet. Sansa’s heart fractured and knitted itself together all in an instant as she watched his eyes fill with glassy tears and his lips pull up in an uncontrollable smile of joyful disbelief. “A baby,” he whispered to her flat tummy. “A baby.”

Sansa covered his hand with her own. “ _Our baby.”_

Jon cleared his throat and squared his stance. “...Our baby,” he repeated, though his voice was flavoured with a hint of melancholy and Sansa could see the way his mind was going as though she were reading a map. The babe shall be Aegon’s.

As if summoned by their sorrow-tinted thoughts, a quick rap on the door was swiftly followed by her husband opening the thing, not bothering to wait for an invitation. Jon bristled beside her, turning to face their prince and reluctantly removing his hand from her flat stomach.

“I’ve just now spoken with the Maester,” Aegon said without preamble. “Fortuitous news!” He grinned, clasping his hands together.

Sansa no longer felt like smiling. She glanced to Jon who was clenching his jaw.

“We should tell father straight away,” he nods, seemingly letting their discomfort go unnoticed. “He’s been-... well, no matter. The happy news should go some way to temper his thoughts.”

Jon shared a look with Sansa. She didn’t like the sound of that at all.

It was too late now.

***

The throne room ate up their echoing footsteps in its cavernous marble maw. The king sat atop his ugly chair with only two guards stood sentry on either side. “You have something of import to tell me, I hope,” he calls as Sansa continues down towards him, husband beside her and lover behind her.

“I do indeed, father,” Aegon beamed. He smiled a proud smile as though he’d done something of great significance. Sansa hated him in that moment. She hated that she was here. She hated that her babe should be the balm and the stitches that mend the realm’s wound. He or she is just a sweet little baby. Hers and Jon’s. “The lady Sansa is with child,” her husband announced, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.

King Rhaegar leans forward in his throne, violet eyes taking her in. “Is she really?” he said in a tone almost amused. “That is... _unfortunate_.”

Sansa’s blood ran cold. Something wasn’t right.

Aegon looked to her and then back to his father upon the dias. His brief chuckle was lacking in amusement and laced with confusion. “Unfortunate? Father, this news is fortunate indeed.”

The king’s smile was thin. “It only makes what must be done more difficult, I’m afraid.... more.... regretful.” His eyes were on her again and Sansa felt his gaze pierce her like a needle through cloth. Jon shifted, stepping beside her and gripping the pommel of his sword.

“I do not understand,” Aegon confessed. “Father, our union is now _fruitful_. Is this not what you wanted?”

The throne room was eerily silent while the king looked them all over. Sansa could hear the pulse of her blood rushing passed her ears. “That was before I’d learnt that your bride was a whore.”

“How dare you!” Jon growled, the beginning of his unsheathing his sword sharp in Sansa’s ears. Aegon reached over and grabbed his brother’s arm, the hiss of steel cutting short. They shared a look. Sansa knew that Jon must not bare his steel to the king. The threat alone would cost him his head, bastard son or not.

“Jon,” she murmured, laying a gentle hand upon him. He was breathing heavy through his nose, the pain in his eyes when he looked back at her almost knocked the air from her lungs. Nevertheless, he sheathed his sword and attention was on the king again.

Rhaegar’s lips twitched minutely as he regarded his bastard son. He ignored Sansa and instead addressed Aegon. “The maidservants have advised me that there is evidence of coupling on your wife’s bedsheets.”

Aegon glanced at her and Jon briefly. “That is how a babe is made, is it not, father?”

“Yes,” the king snickered, “but when this evidence appears when the prince is known to be away from the castle for the evening, one has to wonder who it is that the princess is inviting to leave said evidence in your stead.” He met Sansa’s eyes and lifted a brow.

Sansa’s knees felt like they were about to buckle. They’ve been caught. This is it.

“Father, I-“

“ _Me!”_ Jon announces, the echo of his singular booming admission ringing in the huge throne room. “ _I_ shared the princesses bed, father. The babe is still your kin... Still a Targaryen.”

The king considered his bastard. “Hardly,” he snorted.

“ _Father_ ,” Aegon tried again, taking the first step of the dias, only to be told in no uncertain terms not to take another as both the king’s guards meet his advance with a step forward of their own. Aegon licks his lips and raises his hands in surrender. “Whatever it is you think you must do, you do not,” he said, “I was never going to get my wife with child, father. I can’t. It is an impossibility.” He turned to face Jon, “But Jon could, so I asked him,” he turned back, looking up at the king on his monstrous throne. “ _I asked him to do this_.”

“And your wife just readily went against her vows? Against the gods? It cannot be tolerated, Aegon.”

Jon’s boots scraped against the marble floor as he shifted more squarely in front of Sansa as though he were able to shield her from the king’s sentence. His armour clinked and the sound was all Sansa could bare to focus on.

“If you do anything to her, the northerners will rebel against the crown,” Aegon warned.

The smile that crept across Rhaegar’s lips made her skin prickle and her stomach roll. “Will they now? Perhaps they’ll be successful this time. Won’t it be _fun_ to see?”

“Father, this is madness! You’re treating this like a game?!”

More guards seem to seep into the room as if they’d been hiding within the very walls, awaiting the most opportune moment to reveal themselves. They were surrounded. Jon unsheathed his sword.

“Don’t you fucking touch her!” His head whipped this way and that, trying to get ahead of their overwhelming threats.

“I’m doing her a kindness, boy,” the king called out over the noise of steel escaping scabbards. “If the child is truly yours, you signed her death sentence yourself.” Jon’s head snapped towards the dias. “Your spawn will tear her apart like you did to your own mother. Better they meet the stranger together.” And with that, the king flicked his wrist to indicate that his men should take her away.

Hands were on her, seizing, grabbing, rough hands. She may have shrieked, she’s not sure. Someone had made an almighty sound because the noise was still echoing in her ears when the edges of her world started turning black and her legs could no longer hold her upright.

The last thing she saw was Jon struggling against the hold of three of his fellow gold cloaks. Shouting for her, his face almost turning Targaryen red as he strained to reach her.

***

How long has she been in this place? She keeps drifting in and out of a fitful sleep. There’s no windows, so the concept of day is abstract. They give her food, though she doesn’t always eat it. She supposes that it must be evening time because the meal they bring is more substantial than the rest. Is she going to die today?

The rushes on the stone flagged floor are dirty. The flat excuse of a pillow on her little cot is soaked in tears.

What have they done with Jon?

Someone was coming. Two sets of footsteps echo from outside. Nearer they come and half of Sansa is afraid they’ll just walk right passed her cell and the other half is terrified that they won’t.

Murmuring. Jangling of keys. Sansa hugs her knees to her chest where she sits on her little scratchy bed. They’re coming to take her away; to execute her and Jon’s babe. Torchlight flickers as the heavy door opens with a creaks and a clang. She blinks, her eyes now used to the dim and the dark. Her heart near stops.

“My dear,” a voice says, nearing her.

“Lord Varys?”

He moves closer with grace and care. “I have come to tell you that all is not lost, princess.”

Sansa’s heart began beating anew. Still, her nose wrinkled at the title. “Don’t call me that.” Once, all she’d ever wanted was to be a princess and married to a handsome prince. Now, she only rankles at how silly she once was. Nothing is like it is in the songs. Nothing. Her hand went to rest on her tummy. “Rhaegar no longer wants me dead?”

“No,” he shakes his hairless head, “the king is quite sure on that part, I’m afraid. His madness has convinced him of a thirst for war and what better way to start one than to execute a daughter of the north? But I can help you evade that fate. I have a man in Pentos who will gladly give shelter and means to smuggle you out of this cell, this city, this country. You will be safe. You and your babe.”

“What of Jon?”

Varys straightened at that. “It is true then? The child is not Aegon’s?” Sansa averted her eyes and shuffled even further against the cold stone wall at her back. “It makes no difference to me, my lady,” the lord commented. Sansa supposes he was attempting to comfort her. “Ser Jon has been confined to his chambers under guard. I believe the Maester has administered milk of the poppy to keep him too drowsy to tear the castle down to reach you. From what I’ve heard he put up quite the struggle. It took five good men to hold him down.”

Sansa felt herself break, a sob escaping her throat.

_My knight._

_My love._

Lord Varys took a seat beside her on the little cot as she struggled to regulate her breathing and stem the flow of tears. “It would be tricky,” he told her, “but I suspect I could get Ser Jon to you once you are safely in Pentos.”

Sansa took a gulp of air. A life in hiding, a life on the run; is that what her world will be now? Does it matter at all if she has her child and Jon by her side?

“And the north?” Sansa hiccupped. “Won’t Rhaegar get his wish of a war if I am missing?”

“I will get word to your father that you are safe.” Varys gave her a small smile. “We will need to act quickly, my lady,” he told her, “the northerners have amassed an army and are but a sennights march from the city gates. The king has readied his war council.”

“The north is marching south?”

“For you,” Varys nods, rising. “We need to get you out of here soon. I will come for you tomorrow. Be ready.”

After the lord had left, Sansa had to wonder exactly what he thought it was she needed to ‘ready’? All through what she assumed was the night, every noise, every jangle of keys, clip of boots and holler from the gaoler set her nerves standing upon their very tiptoes. This was it, this was her and her baby’s only chance.

Some, undetermined time later there was a scraping at her door. She must’ve fallen asleep because her head was groggy and she found herself curled up on the rough hewn blankets she had been afforded. The unmistakable sound of a key sliding into the lock filled the room and Sansa’s heartbeat rose as skittishly as she did to her own feet. Is this Varys? Has he come to smuggle her to safety? Or is this one of the king’s men, come to take her to her end? Her hands cradled her flat stomach as she counted her breaths.

The key turned the latch and the door opened with a deafening creak. The torch’s flickering light stung. Sucking in a breath over her teeth, she squinted at her visitor. “ _Sansa!”_ he said breathily and in an instant she knew it to be her knight.

“ _Jon!”_ she flew to him, her legs as stable as jellied fruit.

He caught her in an instant, cloaking her in his strong embrace. His skin was hot and clammy against her cheek but being held by him was the sweetest thing on earth. “ _My lady,”_ he murmured, nuzzling her ear. Sansa felt her eyes prick with tears. “We must go. I’m getting you out of here.”

“Varys sent you?” she asked, pulling back to take a look at him. His lip was split and there was a dark purpling bruise around one eye.

Jon grabbed her hand and tugged her along with him. “Yes,” he said, leaving her little cell behind and walking briskly through dark, winding, narrow corridors. “He saw an opportunity and took it. I am grateful for it.” Sansa focused on the warmth of her knight’s hand and the light of the flame in his grasp, leading the way. He turned a corner and came up short, his boots scuffing to a halt so abruptly she almost crashed into his back. “ _Aegon,”_ Jon growled. Sansa’s stomach flipped and flopped. They’ve been caught already. Will Aegon let them leave?

“I came to break my wife free but I see you’ve beaten me to it, brother.”

“ _Get out of our way.”_ Sansa could practically feel Jon vibrating next to her. He shoved her husband into the rough stone wall with his shoulder and pulled her along passed him.

“I have a plan!” Aegon called before they could get far and Sansa found herself stopping and turning right back around.

“ _Another_ plan?! Pray tell, _dear husband_ , will this one sentence me to death too?!”

“My lady,” Aegon sighed in defeated response to the fire she showed him. “No... this... this plan will give you what you want.”

Sansa snickered. “What do you know of what I want?”

“Come on, Sansa,” Jon reached for her hand again and began to tug her away.

“You plan on leaving the country, I presume?” Aegon asked, taking a step forward, his own lit torch held high, light flickering off the walls. “Don’t. Go north, meet with your father and his army.”

“And have our own father hunt her down so easily?” Jon snarled. “I don’t think so.”

“Father won’t be a problem if you help.”

Sansa looked back at Jon and then to her husband again. What did he mean by that?

“I’ve been garnering support,” Aegon continued, his voice a whisper in their silence. “The people know that it is time that something is done about the king. He hungers for war that the realm does not need nor want. If you... if you go to Stark, tell him that I’ll see to it that the city gates are opened, his army can march right in. I have support against my father’s loyal men, if we add the northerners, we have the numbers to overpower him.”

“To _kill him_ , you mean?” Sansa murmured the treasonous words low and quiet as though the mere sound of them could strangle her there and then.

“He needs to go, Sansa.”

She looked to Jon as he tore his gaze away from his brother. “He would’ve taken you from me,” her knight said, nodding, seeming to agree with Aegon’s sentiment.

Trying desperately to gather her fractured and frayed thoughts, Sansa shook her head. “If I do this, if I convince my father to be part of your rebellion, you have to agree to my terms.”

Sansa watched Aegon’s brow raise and she swears that there’s a shade of an expression that she’s not witnessed on his features before. He looked impressed. She suspects that will wipe off quickly. “What terms?”

“I want an annulment,” she demands.

“Of course.”

He was prepared for that one then.

“I want the north to be declared independent.”

His mouth opened as if to speak but merely hung there for a second or two before it closed again.

“The north will govern itself and my child will not be declared your heir. They will remain in the north.”

“You ask too much.”

“No, _you_ ask too much.” Sansa felt Jon squeeze her hand. She squeezed his in return. “Your sister Rhaenys was wed last year, perhaps she will provide an heir, arrange something with her. Pass the throne to a distant Dornish cousin or a merchant in fleabottom, or melt the thing down and have a commemorative feast in its name, I do not care, just keep me and my baby away from this filthy city and that horrid chair.”

Aegon glared at her for a long while, the torchlight flickering across his cheeks before he huffed. “Anything else I can give you in exchange for your help, my lady?”

“Yes,” she answered, “Jon. You can give me Jon.”

“My brother will stay with me. There are many knights that I can offer as your guard-“

“Not as a guard. As a man.” She turned to look at the man in question. “As a husband.” He had that same awestruck expression on his face as he had when she’d told him of the babe. Closing his parted lips, Jon nods his head in approval of her demand. “Release him from his vows and allow him to come north with me.”

When she turned back to Aegon, he looked torn. “Let him be a father to his child, Aegon... _please_?”

It seemed to Sansa to be an age before the prince finally answered her. His lips twisted into a smirk. “You drive a hard bargain, Stark. But I’ll take it.”

The breath rushed from Sansa’s lungs. She was given to the wrong Targaryen when she first stepped foot in the city all those moons ago. She’ll be damned if she’s not taking the right one home with her now.


End file.
